SFRP Scrolls: Samurai Scorpio
by The Lord Lash
Summary: Hayato Ishida used to be the police HQ's geek. Now he's their only hope. Hayato Ishida and Scorpius team up to become Samurai Scorpio and bring justice to those the law can't. Selected entries from the story of Hayato Ishida, updated weekly. Mild violence, mild language. M for Maverick.
1. An Off Day

Layoffs are fun.

They're always couched in some corporate-correct term, like downsizing, rightsizing, financial uncapsizing, but in the end, it's the exact same thing. People lose their jobs.

Layoffs are a lot less fun when it happens to government employees. Imagine waking up to a voice message, after you've shaved, got the suit on. The message goes something like this: "Hello, sorry for the short notice. Please don't come in this morning. We're currently reshuffling personnel. Your possessions will be mailed to you sometime this afternoon. Thank you!"

When it comes to government employees, though, it's a little different. Instead of giving a voice message, they simply wait for you to step into your office. Then they ambush you. They ask you to turn in keys, badges, gear, then they escort you outside.

The process was already well underway when Ishida walked into city police central. Outside, there was a lineup of people waiting for taxis. Longtimers were crying. People were exchanging numbers and hugs.

Into the building, Ishida carried a thermos and a small messenger bag. He kept his eyes pointed dead-ahead, laser-focused on the elevator. Clip, clop, clip; he trotted across the white-tiled floor.

Just as he reached the elevator, a hand gripped his shoulder. He whirled to face the person.

It was Janet, from three offices down. She had a gun in her hand. "Shut up and press the button."

She was still wearing the employee leash, with the badge/card. The hair had changed from her original photo - she was now had red-tipped, black hair - but her eyes wore the same look: determined. The overlay on her picture jumped out at him: internal security.

He pressed the button in one go, leaning against the wall for support.

Headlights pressed against the station windows, the an armored vehicle crashed in.

Janet whirled as the sound of screams, motors, and shattering glass filled the air.

Ishida dropped his thermos and bag, scrabbling for his Hunter-VG. He pressed his panic button. Black swirling liquid formed on the floor below him, creeping up his legs and torso, solidifying into armor. It crept up his neck, but avoided his face, finally seperating into two chunks. His hachigane and his power suit.

He launched forward, cracking the tile floor with his kick-off. He sailed past Janet, right hand curled into a fist. The doors of the vehicle flew open; four suited gunmen poured out. Their rifles lit up as they opened fire. His suit inflated, absorbing the impact of the weapons. He landed on the ground in a semi-kneel, punching the floor. The floor twisted and buckled, sending a massive shockwave toward the vehicle. The wave blasted through the gunmen, lifted the vehicle, and hurled them all into the street.

Ishida's heart raced, every beat sounding like it was in his ears. He was caked in blood and sweat. The taste of cotton filled the air.

Nobody noticed Ishida slipping into work, late. It was usual of him, as of recent times. Every night, he'd wake up bathed in sweat, his lip cut, his cheek chewed. And every night he'd down a series of pills, blank out, and wake up mid-morning.

Well, it beat the morning rush hour traffic, that's for sure. The hangover and throbbing temples still sucked.

He looked at himself in his locker mirror. Two dark circles stared back at him. He growled at the mirror, then slammed his locker shut. He made his way to the elevator in relative silence, sipping at his thermos flask. The smell of duck soup filled the lobby, prompting the one receptionist to reach for a non-existent bun.

So far, according to routine. He pressed the button and waited.

Every night it was the same dream: he would be coming into work, people crying outside. He'd get near the elevator and would be interrupted by a gunman. He'd see a flash of headlights, then a hummer would skid in. He'd launch himself at the vehicle as suited gunmen poured out.

Some nights he'd slice them. Some nights it would turn into a kung fu film. Last night was different: last night he stomped the ground.

Why was it the same and yet different? More importantly, what did this departure mean? Was it an omen?

It couldn't be.

The elevator doors slid open with a shhhuup. Ishida stepped in. He pressed the 6th floor button and closed his eyes.

The image of the stomp froze in his mind. Could he actually pull it off? Would it be a good idea to?

"Are you OK? You look like you're about to fall asleep."

Ishida's eyes blurrily focused on the speaker's badge. Janet, Internal Security.

"Yeah..." Ishida's hand shook, spilling soup onto his shirt. "I just need to get my prescription changed."

"Are you sure? You should probably take a sick day." Janet paused. "You need to see the nurse. Let's go."

Ishida looked down at his hand. "You're right."

Anxiety. High blood pressure. Possibly fractured finger - in his right hand. A bruised thigh. But no clear medical reason for his nightmares. Just an order to take the day off and see a doctor.

Ishida Hayato, age 28, with a five year perfect streak. Shattered.

"Do you wish to train, Hayato?"

Ishida stared into traffic. Seated on the bus stop bench, he leaned forward. His thermos was open, the contents mostly drained.

"Or would you prefer some alone time?"

Ishida swigged his thermos.

Across the street, an armoured truck opened, two suited men with guns spilling out of the cab. Banks... typically didn't carry all that much cash, especially not here in Electopia.

Ishida blinked. Then he slowly stood up as the two men headed into a bank. His grip around the thermos tightened, dents forming in it. He flung it aside.

"Wave Change! For the honor of Electopia, I will purify these criminals! Samurai Scorpio, On The Air!"

Just like in the dream, black liquid pooled at his feet. It crawled up his body, forming into his trademark armor. A small tentacle wrapped around his forehead, gently sliding behind his hair. A second wrapped in front of his face, forming a welding visor. Stringlets became one with his hair, moving with a will of their own, forming into a ponytail. Small droplets became visible on his cheek sides and chin, forming into sideburns and a well-trimmed beard.

A sheath appeared on his left hip.

Traffic still cruised through the streets. He crouched, his thigh muscles loading like springs. He leapt... but didn't actually get off the ground. Not far, anyway.

He stood up straight. Then he spun, lifting his right leg almost above his head, pivoting his body. His spin continued, his foot crashing into a bus. He followed through by unloading his thigh muscles, pushing out in a powerful kick.

It merely dented the bus.

With a battlecry, he charged into the street, narrowly avoiding getting hit. Cars screeched to a halt, traffic ground into a standstill. The resulting jam extended for a mile.

He either didn't notice or didn't care.

A car had stopped just shy of his hip as he reach mid-way. Finally, he crashed across the street, and into the bank.

Time froze.

A gunman held the bank manager by his ear, the other covering the tellers with a large-magazine weapon.

"I SAID LOCK THE DOORS!"

The gunshot broke the spell as the manager crumpled to the ground.

"Bastards.",Samurai Scorpio leaned forward, crouched into a runner's stance. He lunged forward with surprising speed despite his armor, driven by determination rather than physics.

His left hand touched his sheathe.

The sword cleared the gap, sailing across the room, smashing hilt-first into the shooter's face.

Clip clop clip clop.

Samurai Scorpio followed, but at a much slower pace. The remaining gunman opened fire at the armored figure. The spray of lead was poorly aimed, but still managed to hit him. It just... didn't do much to stop him.

The katana disappeared. The next instant, it reappeared in his hand. He swung, twice, splitting the counter. He kicked, sending the riven counter towards the gunman. He span, swinging his blade toward the gunman. The gunman managed to block, at the expense of the gun.

Samurai Scorpio kicked with his left leg, a roundhouse kick to the man's knee. The gunman buckled as Samurai Scorpio drew back his sword.

"Lights out." Samurai Scorpio brought the hilt down on the man's forehead, hard.


	2. Mobile Printer Technician

"It took a - a figurative boatload of favors to clean up this mess. As of right now, you're taking eight weeks paid leave. Stay out of the spotlight. Stay quiet, stay out of trouble. And stop trying to be a hero."

A gray-haired, mustachioed man looked out the window and sighed deeply.

"I apologize for snapping. We're losing our funding every year, the GSP are expanding. Doubtless they'll leverage this incident to twist the knife a little deeper. In five years, the city police may just cease to exist altogether."

The third floor office was pretty spartan. While it had the decorations of a bigwig's office - mahogany desk, name plate - the chairs were all folding. There were no displays at all, not even as much a phone on the desk. Blinds slanted toward the street, allowing the old man to discreetly survey the city. The old man turned to face his visitor.

"So, Hayato-kun, you can start making up for this by fixing my printer at home. Stay for dinner, I insist. Now go!"

Hayato - the visitor - nodded, then walked out the door.

The old man watched Ishida's retreating form, then collapsed into his beaten folding chair. He sighed again and buried his head in his hands.

"Sorry, Ishida-chan. Your son's an idiot."

* * *

Hayato's shoes made a clicking sound as he travelled the long hallway to his office. His face a mask of calm, he didn't even notice a coworker pass by. Black hair brushed past his face, red tips trailing the coworker, a cloud of citrus in her wake.

He tapped his badge lanyard against the reader, then opened the door. It wasn't common to have an office; most of his peers worked out of cubicles. A pair of headphones lay across his desk, a briefcase and a laptop bag beside it. He grabbed the laptop bag, then stepped around his desk. He opened a drawer, retrieved his thermos.

Below the thermos was a picture, framed. The color had faded, the frame was weathered. A boy in a tuxedo, an older man, and an older lady dressed in olde-time style smiled. Hayato stared at the picture, then slammed the drawer shut.

"Slow down, Hayato." The Hunter-VG clipped into his belt-mounted holster vibrated with sound. "If something is bothering you, you can tell me."

Hayato opened the next drawer, retrieving an e-cigar. He pocketed it, then put on the laptop's shoulder strap. Lastly, he picked up his thermos.

"Nothing."

Hayato shut the drawer, then walked out of his office, closing his door behind him.

Down the hall, a black-haired figure slowly approached, a tablet in hand.

Hayato turned and walked toward the lobby.

* * *

The bus ride back to the apartment was long. Hayato sat in a rear seat, sipping from his thermos. Long was fine; it gave him time to think. Mainly, Hayato just studied the floor.

Eyes on the ground, Hayato continued to sip and stare, stop after stop. The events of the past few weeks ate at him. Why hadn't he been able to defeat that... kid? And although he'd tried to be the hero, a civilian was now dead because of him. It had all been a disaster. Maybe he hadn't trained hard enough. Maybe he just sucked.

Maybe he needed new techniques in his arsenal, like that one samurai used. His sword wasn't as long, but maybe, just maybe...

"... Two-handed strikes."

The bus was mostly empty. The only person to reply was the one he carried at his side. "Sorry?"

Hayato didn't elaborate. The right-down-right attack pattern worked quite well, but the bulkiness of the armor wasn't helping. The lack of synchronization was punishing him, hard. Why? Was he not good enough?

"Why can't I synch?"

A tourist turned to look at the muttering man, but Hayato didn't notice. "I'm doing my best..."

Scorpius sounded tired. "You have to trust me. I've listened to you perfectly, but you need to listen to me. Do you want to be stronger?"

Hayato gritted his teeth. It wasn't a matter of listening, it was a matter of individual effort. That he'd failed simply indicated he wasn't trying hard enough.

"I can do it my way. Just one more go."

Hayato's tone was almost pleading, pleading with himself more than anything.

"Go for it." Scorpius said from the Hunter-VG.

Hayato retrieved his Hunter-VG and began tapping out a message. His eyes narrowed, a determined smile tearing at the corner of his mouth.

"I can do it."

* * *

By the time Hayato was at his apartment, he was obsessed with combat. He practiced his steps, mostly copied from old films and books. He practiced his slashes. He could slash blindfolded, if needed; muscle memory had locked the patterns so deep they were second nature. He visualized his first battle. What could he have done different?

The teleport-trick had worked quite well, but what if he'd gone in simply brute-forcing? Scorpio had shown him a new technique involving a flintlock. That would have been a game-changer. He'd definitely try that.

Hayato experimentally kicked, a roundhouse kick into a bus stop pole. His heel connected with the pole, but his technique left something to be desired. He cradled his foot. Not quite ready for primetime.

Hayato had left little thought to his laptop bag and thermos, which he'd left on the sidewalk. And now he was about to pay.

A cloaked figure, with a scarf over their face dashed past, scooping up the laptop and thermos, barely slowing down. The figure slung the bag's strap onto its shoulder and kept running.

Hayato limped after.

The thief's endurance was incredible, at least compared to the pencil-pushing geek's. Though the runner was headed in straight line, they were already disappearing.

If only Hayato were faster, or if only his foe was slower, Hayato may have had a chance. But the figure turned a corner and cut down another street, breaking the line of sight.

Hayato halted, breathing shallowly and panting. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his e-cig. He puffed on it, a cloud of vapor escaping his mouth.

"Damn it."

Hayato continued to puff away, cursing under his breath. Not fast enough, not strong enough, not smart enough. "I'm tired of failing. I must try harder."

E-cig spent, Hayato crushed it under foot, then pulled out his Hunter-VG. He swiped through several menus, tapped his password into a few prompts. A minute later, he'd pulled up a map. A blinking dot indicated the laptop, and it was travelling fast. And then the dot disappeared near a station.

"Screw it."

A swipe to the right and a tap of a button. Hayato cursed again and holstered his Hunter-VG. What a rotten day. If only he'd been faster...

* * *

"Yes, that document is correct. No rush on processing; I'll be out of office for the next few weeks. Thanks. Talk to you later."

Hayato holstered his Hunter-VG. He glanced out the window of the taxi, watching traffic with interest. The age of private car ownership was mostly over; automated rides ruled the road. The government had recently legalized Wave Cars, but really: why bother? The fun ones required a license on the Hunter-VG to operate. Hayato preferred the old-fashioned motorized black cabs, which zipped along the streets with a quiet hum, ubiqitous, anonymous, and luxurious.

The radio station's host chattered on about companion wizards and what it meant for the future of humans, and should kids have access to it? What if humans forgo procreation in favor of companion wizards? Hayato didn't care either way. The real reason he listened was for the sultry voice of the weather and fortunes lady.

A truck passed by, a black-haired figure in the passenger seat. The figure waved, but Hayato just stared on.

The clock in the taxi read 18:35, time to destination 28 minutes. Hayato closed his eyes.

"I wish I didn't have to put up with this. I signed up to serve and protect."

Hayato opened his eyes. The taxi had stopped. All the traffic had stopped. The freeway came to a sudden screeching halt. The culprit?

A figure in a black-and-yellow jumpsuit dashed across six lanes, rolled over the divider, and across the other side of the freeway. With a roar, traffic started up again, but already, the damage was done.

Time to destination: 38 minutes.

If Hayato had looked closer, he would have noted the figure's gender - female - and a gun strapped to her back. But Hayato hadn't, nor had he noticed the second wave warrior - a horse-riding cowboy along the side of the freeway.

* * *

Printer parts splayed across the metal workbench, extruders, spoolers, gear shifts, motor. The frame itself was on the ground, stripped of covers. Screws were in small shot glasses. An array of tools hung at the front of the workbench. An instruction manual lay open on a coffee table.

Hayato rubbed the bridge of his nose. He'd taken it all apart, found a broken gear, and was now in the process of re-assembling it. The small garage had bare white walls and a simple door into the house. The garage car door was open, letting the last of the sunlight stream in.

The house door opened and the old man emerged, a tray of drinks between his hands. Just as suddenly as he emerged, he was gone, the tray of drinks now beside the manual.

Hayato reached down, pulled up the frame, and plonked it onto the workbench. Slowly, deliberiately, he clicked pieces into place, twisted them into position, and screwed them down. The pieces went into place with satisfying sounds. Finally, Hayato placed the motor on the rails, clipped the clamprods on. Then he plugged in the power supply.

The machine chugged to life. With a clack and a click, it slid the extruder arm over the print area, starting to drizzle hot plastic. The head slid back and forth on rails, dripping out a shape.

Hayato picked up a glass and drank deeply.

The test pattern took four minutes to complete printing, and another five to finally harden. Hayato watched every second of it, a glass in hand. When the printer chimed, Hayato picked up the shape, put down his glass, pushed the garage door button, then went in the house.

Just another day in the life of the City Police IT Department.


	3. Transfer

"Been a long time since you visited, Ishida. What, six years? I remember you took apart the coffee machine and installed a script to order pods. It's pretty much the only piece of Team Tengu that's still there."

The inner streets of historic Dentech were surprisingly sparse on traffic. The Humvee was hardly out of place; black, with a white stripe in the hood's centre, the military-designed vehicle looked more like a pop star's transport.

The driver glanced at the rear view mirror. "Big bro's at a conference in Netopia. He was pretty excited to hear you're joining the team."

Her auburn hair was short in the back, with bangs that hid most of her forehead. Her blue eyes indicated her foreign ancestry, but she spoke with no discernible accent. Despite her informal tone, she was at least in her late thirties.

Hayato coughed. "Conference, hah."

"The Chief's 2IC is babysitting him. There's talk that we could be getting a few Wavies, so they're checking out some equipment. They didn't tell me what you're joining us for, though."

Hayato opened his thermos. "Can't say. You'll see tonight, Sandra."

Sandra pulled over to the curb, parking the humvee next to a Netopian-style diner. She opened the door, and then turned to face Ishida.

There's nothing on our schedule today, so we've been assigned to do ride-alongs with the normies. And- is that duck soup?"

"It's nutritious and delicious."

* * *

Stepping into Historic Dentech's streets felt like stepping into the past. While Dentech was primarily known for the big electronics companies, Historic Dentech was almost a carbon copy of an Netopian city. The shopping district had mixtures of restaurants, cafes, boutiques, and just a few blocks away, the residential area had massive brick apartments.

The fire station slash police station stretched through two blocks, with a garage that began on one street and ran straight to the other. Even it looked from a different time.

Because it was.

Built at the tail end of the 20th century, it was built in the Netopia style. It had integrated housing - something eliminated in later fire stations. The police station side of it had only two cells, meant for holding drunks until pickup.

Outside the police station front, an officer with a bicycle waved.

Hayto approached, his grip on his thermos tight. "You are Noburo?"

"And you're the escort, Hayato." Bicycle Officer nodded.

Hayato stared, poker face intact. "That's my assignment."

"Today's beat patrol is pretty simple. Sign out a bike and meet at the record store." Noburo pushed off, the bike rolling into the street. "It'll be great fun!"

Hayato shook his head. "I am not a people person."

Footsteps to Hayato's left announced Sandra's presence. "Ishida, your baton... it's showing."

Hayato looked down- sure enough, the nightstick was dangling.


End file.
